


Many Hats

by PurpleMoon3



Category: Dennis the Menace (US TV)
Genre: Community: comment_fic, Doggos - Freeform, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 12:08:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16912599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleMoon3/pseuds/PurpleMoon3
Summary: Four careers Dennis could have had and the one nightmare that he definitely did not.





	Many Hats

**Author's Note:**

> For the [prompt: Dennis the Menace (1993), author's choice, 20 years later, what's Dennis doing in life?](https://comment-fic.livejournal.com/933183.html?thread=108876863#t108876863)

**1.) Dog Groomer**

“Boah-rowl.” Ruff 3.0 vocalized his pleasure as Dennis thumbed the trigger sprayer and worked his fingers into the dog's sudsy coat. Ruff 3.0 didn't have much in common from his namesakes, Ruff Mitchell and Ruff the Second, aside from all three being dogs. Dennis had found him a few years ago during his morning jog, and the scraggly pup's fur was so matted with mud he'd thought he'd run into a rabid coyote at first.

Luckily, running a high class pet spa meant he had access to private baths and professional dryers. Ruff 3.0 had been a sweetheart from the moment he sniffed the leftover bacon in Dennis' hand and it was a simple matter of determination and two bottles of shampoo to figure out Ruff 3.0 was some sort of Labrador mix. Dennis had seen a lot of beasts come through his doors and the slight box shape of his skull combined with the breadth of his snout was fairly distinctive. Ruff 3.0 closed his eyes in bliss as Dennis' fingers scritched at the top of his friend's head.

His fur was too long for a Labrador, though. Now, as then, he turned turned the dial up on the nozzle spray and focused the water into a tight beam methodically working from tail to tip. The pressure made lines appear in the fur -or was the technical term hair?- as the water loving dog danced in place, paws rising and falling with little clicks of nails. “There ya go, boy. Don't you like being black instead of gray? How you managed to knock over the flea powder I don't know.”

“Bow-ow!” Ruff 3.0 exclaimed as Dennis switched off the water and reached for the blow dryer. The dog tugged at his leash, but was unable to escape the tube of focused, cool air. He had some towels in the cupboard, but Dennis preferred to knock the worst of the water off and into the tub before he started buffing the dogs. “Roooowl!”

Twenty minutes and a spritz of apple pie cologne later Ruff 3.0 was ready to greet their clients, and Dennis was ready to open shop.

* * *

 

**2.) Detective K-9 Unit**

Joey looked over at Dennis, and rolled his eyes. The man was sitting in the back with his dog, as usual, and as usual felt the need to shout so speak into their radio transmitter rather than let Joey answer. Though, truthfully, Joey didn't really care. Dennis tended to talk enough for the both of them and more often than not the rambling tangents he'd get lost down during interrogations was enough to get the suspects to spill just so they could continue their processing and get away from the oddly friendly detective.

Or maybe they just wanted to get away from his dog. Ruff had been trained extremely well, and while the police dog could sit goofily and wag his tail with the best of them as soon as the right syllables left Dennis' mouth he'd latch onto an arm or leg without a care to how many pats or treats his target had given him in the past. He could also sniff out anything from drugs, to bodies, to a half-eaten granola bar that had been lying forgotten in the back of someone's trunk.

“...code nine on Hwy 7. Mile 16. Requesting K-9 assistance.”

Joey pushed the transmit button as Dennis projected from the back seat. “This is Mitchell & McDonald. We're en route.”

“Understood, detectives. ETA?”

Dennis looked at Joey. The taciturn officer leaned over for the switch to his sirens. He held up his hand, all four fingers and thumb spread. Dennis grinned, “Five minutes out!”

Joey matched his expression, their patrol car sliding into the early morning traffic like greased lightning. Really, they didn't need the lights, the car Ruff was needed to search was already stolen and Officer Bradley wouldn't be letting it go anywhere, but where was the fun in that?

Ruff's furry head tilted back as Joey floored it, both Dennis and his dog howling in gleeful challenge to the wailing sirens mounted on the roof.

* * *

 

**3.) Forest Ranger**

The familiar sound of crunching gravel signaled Dennis' arrival at the trail head. The tiny parking area was already full -a good sign- so he had to park his truck in the grass. Opening the door meant he'd be greeted by knee high grass and green stickers, not to mention the dead growth of last spring still piled up from fall and winter, hidden and waiting to trip up an unwary hiker, but it wasn't anything he hadn't dealt with before. Dennis made sure to really lift his legs, knee bending, a sort of half-march as double checked his radio and spare battery packed into one of the pouches on his belt.

It was bad enough they'd lost some photographer. If _he_ went missing... Margaret would never let him hear the end of it.

Dennis lowered the door on the bed of the truck and clicked his tongue. Ruff Rover -or just Ruff, as the neighbor kid tended to squeal upon sight of the big lug- hopped out of the back and pranced at his side as if in imitation of those horses that he sometimes saw on the beer commercials.

“Mr. Mitchell! You made it!” Mrs. Doventry, the mother of their missing photographer, waved him over from where she was talking to a police officer.

Dennis took her hand with a smile and a playful cock of his head. “Of course, I'm more familiar with his area than most, and Rover here's run around the entire mountain. Don't you worry, Mrs. Doventry. We'll find Mark.”

Bradley nodded. “Right. Ranger Mitchell, could you take a look at the map? We're using the trail as our starting point but...”

Which was pretty much what had been told to Dennis over the phone. He'd helped as much as he could, but there were some things easier to show than tell. And since Mark Doventry had come out for picture rather than a brisk morning jog... Dennis peered over the topographical map splayed out across the hood of the officer's car. It wasn't exactly twenty-four hours, but when it came to missing people in the mountains and their seemingly abandoned cars where their mothers could find them a few exceptions could be made. He traced his finger over the long red snake that signified the hiking path through the mountain. “If you stand at this look out point, you can see a field of Marsh Violet. It's not marked, and there isn't a direct route there, and if he fell trying to get all his equipment down he might not be able to climb back up.”

“Do you think?” Mrs. Doventry bit her lip.

Officer Bradley hummed and gestured to a mix of uniforms -from both his own forest service and law enforcement- and volunteers standing to the side and sipping coffee. “Take group four with you. We're on channel 7.”

“Got it. C'mon Rover.”

Dennis could think of a few places an artist might find himself. The trail itself was almost twenty miles in length, looping around a small waterfall that came out of the cave opening at it's midpoint, and even though there were signs posted _everywhere_ warning not to go in or near the cave that wasn't going to stop someone. It had certainly never stopped him.

* * *

 

**4.) Novelist**

“Unfortunately, Ranger Wilson's fears were proven correct. As he entered the cave a glimmer of light caught his eye, only it wasn't the shimmer of sunlight on scales but instead the glittering remains of glass. Sitting on the damp, slick rocks was the missing man's camera, lens shattered. Ranger Wilson's lips pursed together, his eagle eyes narrowing on the mossy rocks.” Dennis paused to take a sip of cocoa. A half-melted marshmallow butted against his upper lip.

His original plan was to have Wilson discover signs of struggle -gashes in the plant growth there Mark's shoes had slid through the moss- and call the search party to focus on the cave and its surroundings. There, after a bit of spelunking and careful knot work, the victim's body would be discovered. An accident, really, all very tragic as the man was discovered to have been confronted by his lover's fiancee and in the confrontation he slipped and cracked his skull open.

The incident itself would be understandable, but then Michael would have panicked and tried to hide the body, not realizing that Mark was still breathing, drowning the poor bastard while he was unconscious.

But this was the seventh book in his Wild Ranger series, and after writing him for so long Dennis had the distinct impression that Wilson wasn't happy with that resolution. It was too impersonal. Coldwater was a small, tight-knit community. Everyone lived in everyone's pocket. Mark and Sally and Micheal... the drama was too contrived.

Or maybe it wasn't contrived enough. Dennis sighed and leaned back, kicking his feet up on the desk and staring at the black on white lines of his word document. He'd liked it on first outline.

“Wilson needs a girlfriend.” Dennis muttered to himself. That was why he was so unhappy with this plot. His protagonist lived alone and lived for his work. He didn't get along with society in general and only ever felt comfortable in the woods, on the mountain, away from everything that reminded him of his ex. “Or maybe just a friend, period. Outside of work. Hmm. And a twist... Mark is alive, and it was trap all along. Yeah. He's got a grudge from an old case, Wilson failed to apprehend the serial killer that was using a trail, and now its all about revenge.”

Dennis put his feet back on the floor and scooted forward, fingers at the ready. “Wilson stepped carefully around the broken camera. He didn't want to risk slipping on the rocks himself, or disturbing the evidence, for he could see the faint, lined pattern of a man's shoes pressed into emerald moss lining the cave floor. The footprints continued deep into the narrowing cave. Wilson reached for his radio.”

* * *

 

**+1) Dark Wizard Catcher**

“Bombarta!” Dennis yelled, waving his wand in a circle above his head like a lasso before thrusting the thin piece of wood forward. Instead of capturing his prey, however, the wall of reflective glass exploded sending shards everywhere. McNally screamed as the force of it threw him off his feet, bits of glass shredding clothing and skin.

A silent thought of _protego_ and an upwards slash conjured a glowing shield. Glass bounced away before it could hit Dennis. As the criminal clambered back to his feet and shot a blue beam of light at his pursuer Dennis reinforced his protection with a second vicious slash and an audible, “Protego Maximo!”

They exchanged curses, both magical and mundane, and Dennis felt his pulse in his head as his heart danced in his chest. “Give up, McNally! We know it was you smuggling the Acromantula eggs!”

“Fuck you, Arty!” McNally screamed. “Crucio!”

So that was how he wanted to play? Dennis laughed, high giggles that built into barking syllables of “Expecto Patronum!”

Something small and quick swooped out of his wand, growing as it zipped around balls of light, until the near transparent creature slammed directly into the fugitive. Sharp teeth screamed in McNally's face, a final warning.

Dennis jogged the last few yards as McNally shivered under the gaze of the swooping evil patonus. With a lazy grin and a lazier gesture he intoned, “Incarcerous.”


End file.
